


An Unexpected Song

by thefairfleming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, So here we are, but there should be a world in which Sansa gets to know the joy of his Tree Trunk Arms, we all know Dickon is not long for this world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 02:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: Sansa marries Dickon For Reasons, is pleasantly surprised.





	An Unexpected Song

Dickon Tarly is not at all the sort of husband Sansa would’ve thought she’d want.

True, if the girl she’d been could’ve crafted a man to wed, he would’ve been much like Dickon- tall, strong, noble, and handsome. But Sansa hasn’t been a girl in a very long time, and she’d thought she no longer had any use for knights save Brienne. She barely had any use for men at all.

But with the Tyrells gone, an alliance with a strong family in the Reach had seemed wise, and at the very least, she’d reasoned, Dickon was a good man. Brother to Jon’s best friend, Sam, he was also something of a known quantity. She’d looked up into his face at their wedding and known that, at the very least, what she was seeing was all there was to see of Dickon. There would be no surprises.

And there hadn’t been. Subterfuge, schemes, slick words that twisted to mean one thing, then another…these things were as foreign to Dickon as a direwolf would be to an Essosi sailor. After her time at court and with Littlefinger, that was a relief.

No, the surprise was to be found in Sansa herself.

On their wedding night, she’d sat on her bed there at Winterfell- she’d insisted on wedding in the North- and opened her mouth to tell him she had no wish to bed him that night, that she might never be ready for such things.

But then he’d pulled his shirt over his head, standing before her in just his breeches, and her mouth had gone dry, any words withering on her tongue at the sight of him in the firelight.

Sansa had never thought to want a man again, and certainly not a man who was so, well… _male_.

His shoulders were broad, his chest wide and muscled, stomach rippled and hard, every bit of him the warrior. But the sheer beauty of him had her rising from the bed to stand before him.

Sansa had let her fingertips drag over his collarbone on both sides, marveling at the breadth of him, and when her hands had drifted down his bare arms, her palms had felt the tensely coiled strength in him

Dickon must have mistaken the breath she’d sucked in for fear because he had looked down at her, his eyes surprisingly gentle. “There’s no need to be afraid,” he’d said softly. “I’ve no wish to hurt you.”

Her eyes had met his then, and she’d felt a smile curling her lips. “I am not afraid,” she’d whispered back, and was shocked to find she meant it.

He had not hurt her that night, not a bit. Sansa, however, had left scratches on that broad chest, moon-shaped indentations from her nails on his biceps, and the slightest red mark from her teeth just there where his neck met the corded muscle of his shoulder.

The next morning, as they’d prepared to ride to Horn Hill, Sansa had watched her new husband wince a bit as he adjusted the strap of his cloak over that spot. Jon had stood next to her, watching as well, a slight frown on his face.

“He’s a big lad,” he’d finally said, somewhat uneasily, but Sansa had only smiled back.

“I suppose he is,” she’d replied.

That night, at the inn where they’d stopped, her “big lad” had swept her into his arms as though she weighed nothing at all, carrying her from the common room to their chamber to the hoots and claps of their assorted men, and Sansa had remembered how she’d pictured a bedding ceremony when she’d been a girl. It had not been quite the same, but it was close enough that once the door was closed behind them, Sansa had eagerly pulled Dickon’s face to hers, that surprising desire once again running through her blood.

Months into their marriage and settled at Horn Hill, that desire has still not left her, and as Sansa stands at her window, watching Dickon ride into the yard, it starts a low thrum in her body yet again.

His smile when he looks up at sees her does something similar to her heart, but she pays less attention to that.

Instead, she goes down to the yard, lets him lift her off her feet to kiss her, crushing her against his chest. Again, she wonders at the strength of him, at how such a thing once would’ve frightened her, but how intoxicating it is to know that he holds that strength in check for her, that he would _employ_  it for her if she asked.

“Come to our rooms,” she murmurs in his ear when they part, and he pulls his head back to look at her.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he replies, scandalized, and Sansa smiles. He’d worn a similar look on their wedding night when she’d led his hand between her legs, teaching him how she liked to be touched. Luckily, he’d been a quick learner, and Sansa thinks there might be more things he’d be eager to have her educate him in.

“And your wife is a demanding mistress,” she says, arms still wrapped around his shoulders, toes dangling off the ground.

His ears turn red as he carries her back into the hall and up the stairs to their rooms, but he submits nonetheless as Sansa had known he would.

As she knows he always will.


End file.
